Georgia Frontandrearie was laid to rest in Los Angeles on Tuesday. And her body will be moved to Anaheim next week before the city of St. Louis shells out $100 million for it the following week.
Greetings ladies and gentlemen, my name is Dean Martin. Frontandrearie was laid to rest in a private ceremony that was attended by, well, nobody. But Georgia had a celebrity roast for her departed Carroll Rosenbloom (that she was an hour late to), so what’s good for the victim is good for the murderer, right?
So this is the roast for the murdering showgirl. Well, allegedly. Nobody is quite sure that she was a showgirl.
Frontandrearie embodied the American spirit and was a role model for young Midwestern sluts showing them that it was possible to sleep your way to the top.
They say Frontandrearie was a talented gal, but Tony Dungy and Kurt Warner are trying to get that talent outlawed in most states.
She had her legs spread wider than the Rams’ offensive line. She protected her vagina about as much as the Rams offensive line protected Marc Bulger.
Some say that Frontandrearie was the best female sports owner in history. Not much of an accomplishment when your only competition is Marge Schott. And even then, it’s a toss up. The only difference between the two was a face lift. But you have to give old Marge the benefit of the doubt for being as ugly on the outside as she was on the inside.
Frontandrearie was never in touch with reality. She thought that people hated her because she was a woman. But we really hated her because she was a (rhymes with bunt).
Think about this, you are the female owner of a professional football team and still nobody wants to (rhymes with buck) you. You should be every man's dream. But you get mixed up with Georgia and you end up like Martin Luther King when he delivered his "I had a dream" speech.
Not that Georgia hadn’t been married on numerous occasions. She married her first husband – a U.S. Marine – at age 15. He went off to World War II without consummating the marriage. But when faced with the prospect of dying in Europe or spending his life with Georgia, the young man swallowed a grenade.
The St. Louis FC media guide was always the last one to come out because Frontandrearie was so intent on photoshopping her picture. Too bad photoshop didn’t exist back when she was in high school. But then again, her prom picture was drawn on a cave wall.
But enough about that. Right now, we would like to invite to write for you, the greatest columnist in the history of the Orange County Register and probably the greatest sports columnist of all time. But unfortunately, Mark Whicker could not be with us here today. Instead, we invite Mr. Toupee himself, Steve "The Bish" Bisheff.
Thank you Dean, I had no idea that you kept working after you left Jerry.
My name is The Bish, but you can call me the Barron of the Beaker as I prepare to drop mad science on your unwashed asses. Let me don the white lab coat and pump a little Morris Day and the Mother (expletive) Time as I regal you with stories about how great I am.
To really truly understand the Rams, you had to be there like I did. I was one of those crazed teenagers that clawed at Elroy “Crazy Legs” Hirsch that left him shorn in nothing but his undergarments following a late-season game in the 1950s. Of course, I was the only guy pawing at the famed flanker. Funny, that didn’t seem so weird at the times. There was just feelings that you never talked about. When Rock Hudson asked you to skinny dip in his Jacuzzi, you just did it.
But I was with the Rams all the way back to their days in Los Angeles and even in Orange County as I was one of the most electrifying columnists in the history of sports. I hung out with Fred Dryer, and nailed Stephanie Kramer in his dress room while he was on the set. I remember one owners luncheon where Georgia was a little too hopped up on Margaritas and she ran around the Hilton wearing nothing but my toupee as a merkin.
There was once a rumor circulating that Georgia had killed CR not just to take over the Rams, but because she wanted to get closer to yours truly. Unfortunately for her, I didn’t go for the Bea Arthur type. The Bish was always knee deep in Rams cheerleaders, often taking three or four of them in one night. It was once thought that the true initiation for being a Rams cheerleader was to spend a night with the Bish of two of her teammates. And those allegations are true.
That is what drove Georgia mad. She didn’t move the Rams because she wanted the money. She moved the Rams because it broke her heart that she could never have me. Moving them to St. Louis was a move just to spite me, the guy who really knew the Rams.
They say that hell have no fury like a woman scorned.
Thank you, Bish. Has anybody else noticed that The Bish was kind of like the Georgia Frontandrearie of sports columnists? Because he had to have killed somebody to have the longevity that he had.
Plus, he killed newspapers the way Frontandrearie killed husbands. The Herald Examiner went belly up once the Bish got a column. And the Register can't stop laying off people. Now he's trying to kill some small-time ESPN Radio website. Is there nothing sacred? The Bish is costing people their jobs.
But now, get ready for the man known as Mr. St. Louis -- which is akin to being known as Mr. Fallujah -- say hello to Jack Buck.
Before I get started, just let me say that if I had any idea how much of a pompous (expletive) my son Joe was going to grow up to be, I would have pushed his mother down a flight of stairs when she was pregnant with him. But believe it or not, my son is not the worst piece of (expletive) to come out of this (expletive) hole, we call St. Louis.
In fact, I’m not really did, but I just went into hiding because my son is such a (expletive). It is like the (expletive)-son protection program.
Just kidding, I’m really dead. In fact, I was laying on my death bed and I was thinking to myself, "Dear God, why are you doing this to me? Why can't you take my son, Joe? Really. Take him will ya? He's a piece of (expletive)."
The thing that finally pushed me over the top was having that (expletive) move her NFL franchise to St. Louis. We put up with the Bidwell’s (expletive), did we need this (expletive) coming to our God forsaken town? And while I’m at it, St. Louis has to be one of the worst sports towns in America. They always say that St. Louis has such great baseball fans. Bull (expletive). St. Louis sucks. The only reason the St. Louis fans are into baseball is because our idiots can’t understand soccer. If St. Louis was its own country, it would be a fourth-world nation. Ethiopia would be sending us wheat.
I swear to Goodness. The current football fans in town are already turning away from this team. It will serve us right if Chip Rosenbloom sells this team to a bunch of his Hollywood buddies, who will move it back to Los Angeles. And TransWorld Dome will be converted into the world’s largest WalMart.
Oh man, I’m so glad I cashed out.
Thanks, Jack. Speaking of Ethiopians, what's the deal with Ethiopian restaurants? They have a number of them on Fairfax and just what the hell do they serve there? Tumbleweeds? Maybe a bag of flour with a U.S. flag on it. I'm all for trying something different, but how many different ways can you serve marinated dirt? Is the food served by a bunch of children with bloated stomachs who have to balance a tray while swatting away flies? Does Sally Struthers run up and eat all of your food before you get a chance to?
I'm just asking is all. Now, ladies and gentlement, please welcome Lil' Hater. They say that Lil' Hater is the brains behind THN, but frankly, he seems more like the appendix.
Hey kids, it’s great to be here in St. Louis. Great town, great town. Although I was a little worried when I showed up at the airport, and the three chauffeurs assigned to driving us roasters over to the event were Josh Hancock, Tony LaRussa and Leonard Little.
Seriously, Leonard, did we really need to stop at the Beer Barn on the way over? It’s only 8am!
But hey, we made it here in one piece, and I’m sure you can’t prove that the blood on the front grill of the limo is human.
And they booked the event here in downtown St. Louis, at the fanciest and tallest building in this fine city. Classy move. I’ve gotta admit though, I was a bit winded after walking up those four flights of stairs to the top of the building. So I might have to keep my comments brief.
Where was I? Oh yeah, St. Louis – great town! I mean, Bill Bidwell thought it would be more fun to move to the middle of a desert rather than stay here, but what does that jackass know? It’s not like the NFL will ever pick his lousy town over this fine city to host the Super Bowl.
Anyway, looking over the Members Only jacket-wearing crowd here in St. Louis today, and its obvious to see why Georgia picked this city to relocate her team.
She said, and I’m pretty sure this is a direct quote, “If you were an unattractive, worn-down stripper with a terrible personality and no class whatsoever, where in the U.S. could you possibly go where the local residents would still think of you as a good person, not just a tarted-up, money-grubbing, husband-murdering cow? Where in this country are people that freaking stupid?”
So anyway, it’s great to be here in St. Louis today. Lots of mullets in the audience, I see.
Hey, quiet back there. I don’t think I’m going over the line here. A lot of people back in SoCal said “Lil Hater, don’t do this roast, Georgia will have it out for you. I mean, we heard Satan was just found burned to death.”
Well let me tell you something, buddy: I was never afraid of Georgia. I’m a plastic bobblehead. I float.
Now, Georgia’s legacy in Southern California has been on my mind a lot recently this season. Pretty much every Sunday, when every f’ing Giants game is shown on TV out here, I think, man if only the Rams were still in SoCal, they’d have to show that NFC game, instead of this Joe Buck-televised monstrosity. Thanks a lot, Georgia. And they say bad things only happen to good people.
But enough about Georgia and St. Louis. Seriously, I’m already tired of this place. I’m outta here.
And my neighbor Mark McGuire asked me to pass on a message to the overweight half-wits who cheered him on in this godforsaken city, all those years: if any of you clowns try to sneak into Shady Canyon in hopes of meeting me, I’ll release the hounds on your ass.
Lil' Hater ladies and gentlemen. But be careful of Bisheff's piece. And I have been handed some sad news, folks. Theologians from a wide array of faiths were stunned by the news that
Satan, previously believed immortal Tempter of Souls and embodiment of evil, was found drowned in his own Lake of Fire today only 50 feet from his Throne of Lies... Surprisingly, Satan has willed Hell over to Georgia Frontandrearie who plans to move Hell to St. Louis. Hitler, Pol Pot and the rest don't know why they keep getting punished.
Right now ladies and gentlmen, we would like to bring to the stage a man known around Newport Beach as "The Iron Lung." He's a man you don't want to leave your lady alone with. Just ask Flea. Ladies and gentlemen ...
Now, it would be easy to make fun of Madam Ram for her showgirl beginnings, her seven marriages or the two children she bore out of wedlock. I prefer to take the high road, however, and poke a little fun at her for her career as a home-wrecker, team-stealer, and killer.
Ah, memories… Georgia takes up with the married Carol Rosenbloom, owner of the Los Angeles Rams. Georgia persuades Mr. Rosenbloom to divorce his wife and marry her. Georgia drowns her husband and takes over the team, neatly cutting out Rosenbloom's son (by his prior wife) in the process. Now, I should note that Mr. Rosenbloom's death was officially declared accidental. If you believe that a competition level swimmer drowned in five feet of water off the dock of his own home (with Georgia as the only witness), then you might as well bail out O.J. and go search for the real memorabilia-jackers.
You know, our host once asked if the Rams faced the Raiders, who would you cheer for. I didn’t hesitate with my answer: If the Rams play the Raiders, you cheer for the blimp to crash into the stadium, enveloping the players, coaches, and fans in a horrific fireball. You also hope that Georgia Frontandrearie dies last, her lungs filling with puss as her withered, charred hand attempts to pull a quarter from the pocket of the lifeless season ticket-holder next to her.
That's how I prefer to remember Georgia- not as a ditzy, uneducated hose-monster, but as a scheming, morally retarded thief who was too lazy to steal the old fashioned way.
The Hatriot, folks. Give him a big hand. Just don't let him have a nip of that single-malt scotch. You don't want to know what will happen.
Now how many of you out there new that Georgia was born on a farm? Now it makes sense why she was plowed around. It's rumored that even Bea Arthur rode her like a rented mule.
That's it, folks. Thanks to everybody who participated and those of you that took the time to read down this far. God bless.